The Pain Won't Last Forever
by Katsuko1978
Summary: Life is pain. But sometimes, a shoulder to lean on can make things seem a little less bleak. A series of one-shots written for hc bingo on LiveJournal and DreamWidth. Various characters and situations. Warnings within. Rated for future chapters.
1. For the Future

**Disclaimer:** TF © Hasbro  
**Warnings:** implications of prostitution and blink-and-you'll-miss-it mech-preg implications (as in, it doesn't happen but is mentioned very much in passing)  
**Summary:** He didn't plan to live this life forever.  
**Word Count:** 918  
**Notes:** For **hc_bingo**. The prompt is _rent boys/girls_. Also, playing somewhat fast and loose with the prompt, as I tend to do.

* * *

**For the Future**

Cliffjumper took a moment to stretch, working out a kink in his wiring before rolling out of the berth and onto his feet. He paid no further attention to the mech still sprawled out behind him, lost to post-overload recharge. Instead he headed into the wash rack, cleaned away the lubricant coating his thighs, and slipped out of the motel room once he was presentable again. He'd collected his credits beforehand, as he always did since realizing it was easier to get paid that way than in rifling through his client's subspace once the mech or femme had passed out.

The minibot never ceased to be amazed at how many mechs and femmes seemed to have something of a fetish for his frame-type. He also couldn't complain much about it; he made twice as much, maybe three times as much, in a night cycle as most of the other pleasurebots working in Polyhex. And he never really touched half of what he made. That part was set aside in a fund towards finding a better place to live — if he had an option, he'd take _anything_ in Simfur over a better sector of Polyhex — and getting himself through a trade school so he could quit working the streets.

He wasn't planning to be a pleasurebot forever, after all. Not anymore.

Doing some quick calculations and deciding that he'd surpassed his income goal for the evening with his previous client, Cliffjumper turned towards home and started walking. There was one very important stop he had to make, and it was on the way. In less than a breem he was buzzing his neighbour, a femmebot who worked the late afternoon/early evening shift at a nearby bordello as a waitress-slash-stripper and had the later part of the cycle off.

"Hey, Moonie. Any problems?" he asked when the green bot opened the door.

Moonracer gave him an apologetic smile. "A few bad dreams," she replied. "The third time, he refused to go back to recharge. Sorry, Jumper."

"It's not your fault," he said, following the femme inside and to a small guest room where a minibot hatchling was curled up on the berth. Cliffjumper walked over and sat down next to the little one, tapping the mechling's helm gently with a fingertip."What's wrong, little Bee?"

_"Dax!"_ the hatchling wailed, throwing himself at his creator and proceeding to whine and babble in the chirping language of the very young. The minibot let his engines hum softly, giving a smile and nod to Moonracer as she lead them back to the door.

Cliffjumper and his creation arrived at their own apartment in short order, the older minibot locking the door behind them as he continued to hum softly. The hatchling had calmed somewhat, but was still valiantly fighting recharge. Whatever dreams had shaken him from recharge were obviously bad enough that the little one couldn't drift off without reassurance that his creator was close at hand. The red mech headed straight for the berthroom and settled onto his berth, letting his tiny yellow hatchling lie directly over his spark chamber.

"Hush now, little one," he crooned, running his fingers lightly over his creation's back plating. "Matter's here, and he won't let anything harm you." It rook a little while, nearly four breems, but eventually the hatchling calmed enough to slip back into a deep recharge.

Cliffjumper smiled. A hatchling had honestly never been part of his plans, but one requested spark-merge rather than a straight-up interface had changed everything. Even though he could afford the fees with as much as he made, Cliffjumper couldn't bring himself to terminate a new-spark and he had no way to contact that one-off client. And since he had grown up in the youngling-care facilities, he didn't see that as a good way of life for his little one.

Rather than abandon another innocent life to an uncaring system, the minibot had re-evaluated and altered his plans accordingly. He made sure to go to the health clinic frequently while carrying the new-spark next to his own, and used some of his nest egg to buy a decent-quality frame for when his creation was strong enough to survive the spark transfer. He'd only wound up carrying for three orns, and realized he'd made the right decision for them both when he saw tiny blue optics light up for the first time.

Now, he still made sure that his hatchling got medical checkups often — and made sure to get frequent checkups for himself as well, since he had to stay healthy in order to make life easier for them both one day — and that a portion of his spendable income went towards all the things that a growing young mech needed. All the rest went into the rent for the apartment and energon for himself, with his savings growing every cycle. It was true, he could go ahead and use some of it now to get a little more energon or a slightly larger apartment, but those credits were for the future; Cliffjumper refused to accept that this was the only life that the one good thing in his would ever have.

If he had his way — and Cliffjumper was stubborn enough to make it into a reality — they would be settled in Simfur and he would be working in a respectable trade before the little one grew into his youngling frame. And if everything went according to plan, Bumblebee would never have to work the streets just to survive.

* * *

**End Note:** Feel free to cast guesses as to who Bee's other creator is, because I sure as fuck don't know. All Cliffjumper knows is that the mech was just passing through and had some sort of sparking-only kink.


	2. Out of Mind

**Disclaimer:** TF © Hasbro  
**Warnings:** physical and mental trauma, implications of long-term casual sexual relationship.  
**Summary:** Comfort is not given only with words, but with actions as well.  
**Word Count:** 730  
**Notes:** For **hc_bingo**. The prompt is _telepathy (always there, but sudden trauma)_. Once again, playing a tiny bit loose with the prompt. And who else could I _possibly_ use for a telepathy prompt but Soundwave?

Please note: This is set in the 2007/2009 movie universe sometime after RotF.

* * *

**Out of Mind**

He could hear the raging from several corridors away, a clear sign for Soundwave and his drones to steer clear of Lord Megatron for the time being. The only mech who could even get close to the Lord High Protector during his rages was his second, and even then Starscream could only do so much. The satellite sent out a brief tendril of thought in order to briefly touch cortexes with the jet—

And suddenly doubled over mid-step, causing the three drones with him to trill in alarm. Soundwave threw out an arm in silent command for them to remain where they were, forcing himself to intake air and reach out carefully a second time. The pain was still there, the most prevalent sensation coming from the jet, accompanied by a hint of confusion and anger. The satellite forced a tendril of reassurance and comfort towards the other mech as he pushed himself back to a fully upright position.

Soundwave moved carefully down the corridor, moving closer to where he knew Lord Megatron and Starscream had been 'speaking' only a short while ago and ignoring the hovering trio of drones in his wake. He could still hear shouting, but now it was punctuated with the sound of metal crashing against metal – either someone being thrown against the walls or fists of one striking the other with intent to maximize damage. Given how poorly the battle in Egypt had gone and how few Decepticons had actually made it back to the Nemesis, Soundwave was almost positive that it was a combination of the two behind the noise.

The satellite reeled under an even stronger pulse of pain and confusion, the link between his cortex and Starscream's nearly breaking from the intensity. Soundwave forced himself to remain on his feet, bolstering his mental shields as much as he was able and following the tendril to where it connected with the second in command. He didn't attempt the "see" through the other mech's optics, knowing that it wouldn't be appreciated in any way, instead wrapping as much of his presence around the jet's cortex as possible to share the blows. A faint flicker of gratitude brushed against his cortex for a moment before being buried beneath the stronger sensations once again.

Soundwave stood up a bit straighter when the door a few meters down from where he'd been leaning on the wall opened, Lord Megatron stalking out and still almost vibrating with rage. The satellite met his optics unwaveringly, giving no indication that he was aware of the larger mech's recent actions. After a moment the commander growled low in his throat and shoved past the shorter mech without a backward glance. Soundwave remained still for a moment longer before heading into the room his leader had just left behind.

A faint surge of anger bubbled in him for a moment before he reined it in to keep from projecting across the telepathic link. Starscream had, as always seemed to be the case, taken on the brunt of Lord Megatron's rage in the aftermath of the battle. One of the jet's wings was half-torn from his back, both legs appeared to have several impact wounds from fists and talons tearing through them, his left arm was sparking dangerously at the shoulder, and it looked as if his vocal capacitor had been crushed yet again. Even so, the confusion almost overpowered the pain now that the Lord High Protector had left, and Soundwave fought down the urge to jack into Lord Megatron's cortex and force all of Starscream's thoughts into his head.

Instead of dwelling on that thought, the satellite crossed the room and carefully helped the other officer to his feet, slipping one arm and a few of his tentacles around the other mech's waist to support him. Starscream leaned heavily against him as gratitude flared in his cortex. Soundwave picked it up easily – vorns upon vorns of only having the other to fall back on in times of strife and the rare moments of physical _need_ had forged an unorthodox comradeship between them – and strengthened the telepathic link just enough to send another surge of comfort back.

The two mechs left the room in silence, followed by Soundwave's three drones, and made their way through the corridors. For now, Starscream was in need of repairs and both were in need of refueling.


	3. CoDependent

**Disclaimer:** TF © Hasbro  
**Warnings:** some physical trauma, fly-by-night field repairs, a bit of TF swearing, and some very mild hinting of a possible future pairing.  
**Summary:** There had been rumours that a couple of the minis were _close_, but until now he hadn't paid much attention.  
**Word Count:** 2,024  
**Notes:** For **hc_bingo**. The prompt is _old school medical treatment_. This also ties in a little with a previous prompt, which will become apparent pretty quick. Also, many thanks and kudos to Apollymi for her suggestion of _kick it ' til it works_ ideas for 'old school' treatment XD

* * *

**Co-Dependent**

If he had to name one thing he hated most about the slagging war, Ratchet would have to say that field repairs were quite possibly the worst so far as he was concerned. Just knowing that there were going to be times when he'd have to decide if the 'bot bleeding out on the ground was in salvageable condition or if the only good he could do would be to end his suffering quickly left the medbot feeling numb inside. Maybe it was because he was still, in all technicalities, an apprentice medbot; maybe it was because even with his temperament he wasn't cut out for life on the battlefield.

Whatever it was, he still forced his own concerns and insecurities aside and followed the orders as they were given. Granted, he'd have been a whole lot happier if Hoist had left him behind to do triage at the base rather than drag him along to retrieve the injured from a battle that was _still_ raging even as they arrived. It was nice to be appreciated for his skills, but...

"Sharpshooter's down over along the east wall," the unit commander was saying, Hoist nodding slightly as he tended to the mech's sparking arm. "One of the spies we were trying to extract was over there with him last I heard."

"Ratchet, if you would?" The words sounded like a request, but Ratchet recognized the command in them and nodded sharply before setting off. He didn't have much more than a rudimentary repair kit in his subspace – standard operating procedure for the field, but useless to repair extensive damage – and he hoped that whatever injuries the pair sported weren't too severe for him to patch.

Whatever he'd been expecting when he made it to the east wall, under the cover of laser fire and clusterbomb explosions, it certainly hadn't been one minibot leaning heavily on another for support as he fired on the few Decepticons that hadn't yet returned to the central location of the battle.

Ratchet took a moment to observe before approaching the pair. The red one, obviously the unit's sharpshooter judging by the pulse rifle he was targeting the enemy with, had a pretty nasty gash along the right side of his torso that was leaking energon at a steady but not yet alarming rate. It looked as if it might be the result of some sort of projectile weapon, but he couldn't make that determination with any accuracy until he got a closer look. The yellow minibot was apparently the only thing keeping his companion from collapsing, working to not only support the other but also to keep the damaged plating from separating any further.

When the enemy fire tapered off, signaling that the Decepticons were falling back to the central conflict, the sharpshooter slumped against both the wall and his companion, rifle dropping to the ground as he hissed in pain. Ratchet took that as his cue to join them, darting across the short distance just in time to help the yellow minibot catch the other before he could fall over. Now that he was closer, the medbot realized that the mech was slagging lucky; there were a few scorch marks around the gash itself and the outer-casing of a clusterbomb. The bomb must've simply grazed him when it exploded because otherwise there wouldn't have been enough left of the minibot to scrape off the ground; however, the worst case scenario here was that he might have a scar for a while but the self-repair nanites would minimize it in a vorn or two.

Unfortunately, that meant Ratchet was going to have to field patch it in order to ensure that the mech even made it back to base camp and the repair bay located there.

"Did it never occur to you that maybe you should duck behind the wall and _try_ to stop the bleeding instead of shooting at the enemy?" he found himself asking, and instantly giving a mental wince when he noted the bumblepuppy optics being turned onto him by the yellow minibot. Oh yes, Hoist was most likely going to hear about his snark once again. One of these days, he'd learn how to turn it off while working.

"Where's the fun in that?" the red minibot quipped back, either ignoring Ratchet's comment or finding it amusing. The faint grin he flashed before wincing made it seem like the second was the more likely option. That was... new; most mechs he started in on tended to scowl at him and demand to speak to his mentor. "Besides, they're gone now, ain't they?"

"They're gone and you're bleeding. Good call there," Ratchet replied, oddly pleased to have someone to verbally spar with even if it was a patient who had taken a clusterbomb to the side and lived to tell the tale. "If you go into stasis because you bled out all over the place, I'm going to kick you until you come back online just so I can say _I told you so_."

"Can you repair it?" the spybot asked, turning his gaze towards Ratchet once more after shooting a chiding glare at his companion. The medbot bit back a slight grin; there had been rumours circulating around the various encampments that a couple of the minibots seemed to be _close_, but until right now he'd just ignored it as talk. True, the head of Special Operations mentioned that one of his agents went on endlessly about some mech called Cliffjumper, and the security bots talked about how one of their own was almost scarily protective of a bot designated Bumblebee, yet Ratchet had still chalked it all up to gossip. However, given the way the little spy was practically hovering over the sharpshooter and the fact that the sharpshooter had in turn not taken a rest until the enemy was retreating, the medbot was forced to accept that there was likely some truth to those rumours.

"For the moment, best I can do is a patch," Ratchet admitted, addressing both minibots since now he had two sets of optics locked on him. "We'll have to get you back to Iacon base camp to do much else."

"Do it," the sharpshooter replied, voice tight. The yellow mech – and he was really going to have to confirm that these were the minibots that most of his acquaintances were talking about – shot him another worried look and gripped his hand. The medbot pulled his emergency kit out of subspace and removed the portable blowtorch along with some temporary plating.

He glanced up, catching the wounded mech's gaze before speaking again. "I'll warn you right now, this is going to hurt. These med kits aren't designed to carry much more than the basics, so I have no anesthetic nanites or anything of the like to offer you."

"Can't hurt any worse than this slagging thing," came the reply almost instantly, drawing a faint grin from his companion. Ratchet nodded and cut on the blowtorch, setting a section of the temporary plating over the gash. He dialed down his audio receptors slightly before he started to weld the patch into place.

He was immediately glad that he'd done so; the red minibot shrieked at the heat from the blowtorch's flame but forced himself to remain as still as possible and most likely crushing his companion's hand in the process. After the initial howl of pain, the mech started to curse and make some rather colourful deactivation threats against whichever 'con had fired the clusterbomb. Ratchet almost felt sorry for the recipient of the minibot's ire, and at the same time was a bit impressed by his creativity.

_Mech curses like a Polyhexian,_ the medbot mused silently to himself, setting another patch over the wound to continue. He gradually dialed his audio receptors back up once more now that the sharpshooter wasn't screaming anymore, most of his focus on the work he was doing yet still listening to the minibots. He was nearly finished with the final weld when he picked up on what the spybot was saying. Just under the sound of the blowtorch and the popping of heated metal and even the red minibot's continued swearing, Ratchet could just barely make out the words being spoken.

"Just a little longer, Cliffjumper, and then he'll be finished. It'll be okay, really. I can't lose you, okay? Let him get finished and then you can finish getting fixed up back in Iacon and then you can take it all out on the next slaghead 'con to come along. It's okay, Matter. We're both still online."

It was only his training that kept the medbot from freezing up and looking at the pair in shock as he registered the words. Instead of reacting outwardly, Ratchet finished the final weld and returned the blowtorch to the med kit even as his processor reeled slightly at the implication. Neither of the mechs appeared to be very old; Bumblebee – and if the red mech was Cliffjumper, the yellow one couldn't be anyone else from what the rumours claimed – was most likely barely three vorns into his adult frame and Cliffjumper couldn't even have been a full quarter-vorn into his before he got sparked up. Ratchet glanced back over at the pair as he tucked the med kit back into his subspace, finally noting the similarities beyond just the obvious minibot frames both carried.

The pair shared a similar helm design, Bumblebee's slightly different from Cliffjumper's, and both sported sensor horns along with a set of more traditional audio receptors; those were probably what made each essential to the specific unit he was assigned to. Both of the mechs had black accents on their plating, Bumblebee's more overt than Cliffjumper's. If one knew what to look for – someone like a trained medbot, for example – it was obvious that they shared similar facial features and optic shape as well; even the shade of their optics was too close in colour to be anything but a very strange coincidence or a family trait that had been passed along from creator to creation.

From Cliffjumper to Bumblebee.

All of this passed through Ratchet's cortex in the span of a few astroseconds, just enough time for the elder of the minibots to give the younger a reassuring if somewhat drained smile, before he spoke up once more. "That'll hold until we get to Iacon at the least; once there we can do some real repairs. It'll likely be a vorn, maybe two, before it heals completely. You're lucky, kid."

"And pretty." Cliffjumper laughed faintly as Bumblebee punched him on the arm and scowled faintly in disapproval, even though his optics held relief and amusement. "Maybe I won't be quite so pretty for a couple vorns, but perfection ain't everything."

"At least you're modest," Ratchet groused, rolling his optics skyward for a moment and grinning slightly at the soft snort of laughter from the younger minibot. "Time to move out. My CO is close by, so we should be able to get the pair of you on the next transport back to base."

"Sure thing, doc," Bumblebee replied, moving to help his formatter (and really, wasn't _that_ the best-kept secret in the Autobot army?) stand. He shot the medbot a grateful smile and added, "Thanks."

"It's what I do."

It would be later when he'd wonder which made him feel warmer: Bumblebee's gratitude or the small smile Cliffjumper flashed him as the two of them climbed carefully into the transport to Iacon.

* * *

**End Note:** ...oh dear god, why the hell am I contemplating Ratchet/Cliffjumper? That's a sign of the apocolypse, isn't it?


	4. Anxiety

**Disclaimer:** TF © Hasbro  
**Warnings:** a bit of angst and fluff  
**Summary:** His core temperature was fluctuating and his tanks churned uncomfortably. Crowds really weren't his thing.  
**Word Count:** 769  
**Notes:** For **hc_bingo**. The prompt is _social phobia_. I actually opted to look into details on what _exactly_ constitutes a social phobia, and dear _**god.**_ It's as if the gods of writing were trying to give me the juicy stuff on this bingo card.

* * *

**Anxiety**

Sunstreaker would never admit it, but he actually _hated_ gatherings of any kind that didn't involve fighting or refueling.

It was some sort of glitch in his programming – at least according to Ratchet, who had been more than a little displeased that he'd kept it hidden for so long – but whenever he was amidst a group of more than three or four mechs, the Lamborghini started to get nervous. He knew it wasn't true, but some part of his central cortex insisted that he was being judged, that any minor flaw would lead to outright humiliation. For a long time he'd attempted to counter it by cultivating a false sense of vanity and indulging in excessive amounts of high-grade whenever forced into group situations, but both only served to worsen things in the long run.

In fact, the only reason he'd been in a situation for Ratchet to diagnose the problem in the first place was due to a little too much high-grade and a severe systems crash that had lead to a lengthy stay in the medbay. After he'd fully detoxed and been summarily scolded like a wayward youngling that had broken one of his creator's rules, Ratchet had informed him about the origins of his 'social anxiety glitch' and methods of dealing with it that didn't involve drugging himself into a reboot.

In spite of the fact that he now had a small supply of stabilizers to balance out the glitch, Sunstreaker still couldn't really relax fully in group settings, especially parties of any sort. Not even when it was just the crew of the Ark gathering to celebrate a successful counter-offensive against the Decepticons, which was definitely reason for celebration.

The yellow twin managed to keep an amused smile in place as Bluestreak began a fairly accurate retelling of his own role in the day's victory, although he felt his core temperature fluctuate as he took note of how many Autobots were in the rec room. The only mechs absent were those who had yet to be released from medbay, and they would likely be appearing before too much later in the evening. Sunstreaker was uncomfortably aware of just how many sets of optics could pass over him and find him lacking, find something wrong or out of place or imperfect—

Just the thought was enough to make his tanks churn uncomfortably, and he glanced down at the cube of high-grade that Sideswipe had handed him just before Blue started talking. It would only be his third, which was nowhere _near_ how much he'd used to drink in order to get through nights like this one. He probably should have downloaded one of his stabilizers before coming to the rec room, but he'd still been on an electrical high from battle and it never crossed his cortex until he noticed that nearly every soldier was present and accounted for.

He was just about to give into his nervousness and drain the cube – anything to stop the slight shakiness in his limbs – when a hand fell lightly on his arm.

"Hey, Suns? I'm not feeling too good."

Sunstreaker noticed a few of the mechs nearby turning to look their way but was able to force them to the edge of his awareness, focus locked on his lover. "Do you need to see Ratchet?" he asked, absently setting the untouched cube on the edge of the table behind him; Prowl swiftly shoved it back before it could fall.

Cliffjumper shook his head, smiling faintly. "I don't think it's anything major, just my audio receptors still ringing a little. I think I just want to go lie down, try to recharge, and see if that helps."

"Want me to come with you?" the taller mech queried, grasping for an excuse to leave the party without coming across as rude. At the silent affirmative, Sunstreaker draped an arm over the minibot's shoulders and guided them from the room, noting with some relief that no one seemed to bat an optic shutter at their exit. He relaxed further when Cliffjumper's arm slipped easily around his waist and squeezed slightly. "Is your head _really_ bothering you?"

"A little, but it's nothing major," the minibot admitted. "I was more worried about you. Did you realize your right leg was twitching?"

"I thought I was imagining that part."

"Stubborn slagtard," Cliffjumper scolded affectionately. "Let's just get back to our room and then _you_ are downloading a stabilizer while I get out a couple of cooling blankets."

Sunstreaker rolled his optics slightly but didn't argue. After all, it was nice to be fussed over sometimes.

* * *

**End Note:** And then there were cuddles under the cooling blankets. And maybe interfacing. I honestly have no idea what they did, really.


End file.
